The problem with owing a life debt to a former adventurer who could bench press a minotaur was that labor laws became more of a "suggestion" than a rule.
"Table Five needs a refill. Table Two wants the pasta. Table Eight is asking why there are leaves in their soup. Tell them it's a garnish. Do not tell them it fell from the ceiling."
Ryuu Lion was a taskmaster of the highest order. She moved through the chaos of the *Benevolent Mistress* with the grace of a dancer and the efficiency of a guillotine.
"Got it, got it!" I chirped, balancing a tray of frothy mugs while pirouetting around a protruding root of the Great Oak of Table Four. "Service with a smile! And a side of photosynthesis!"
It had been three days. Three days of wearing the frilly green uniform. Three days of pretending my dignity wasn't slowly eroding with every "Hey, cutie!" shouted by a drunk dwarf. Surprisingly, I was good at this. The Venti charm,a mix of playful deflection and lyrical nonsense worked wonders on the tips. I had almost enough Valis,to buy a sandwich. A small one. Without cheese.
The pub door swung open, the bell jingling violently.
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. It wasn't the usual lull of conversation; it was the charged silence of predators entering a grazing field.
Walking in was a group that radiated power. Leading the pack was a redhead with a grin that split her face, eyes closed in a perpetual squint of mischief. Behind her, a collection of warriors who looked like they chewed gravel for breakfast: a grumpy werewolf, two Amazonian twins who were loud enough to wake the dead, and a blonde girl who looked like she was dissociating from reality.
"The Loki Familia," a patron whispered fearfully.
"Jackpot," I whispered, thinking of the tips. "Or a funeral. Let's find out."
The redhead—Loki, presumably—scanned the room. Her eyes landed on the massive tree growing out of the floor.
"Oho?" She cackled, strutting forward. "Mia's finally gone druid? I dig the aesthetic. Very 'return to monkey'."
"Table for six!" one of the Amazon twins yelled. "And bring booze! The strong stuff!"
They commandeered the largest empty table. Ryuu was busy breaking up a arm-wrestling match that had turned into a fist-wrestling match, so she shot me a look that clearly said: *You deal with them. If you die, I will deduct the funeral costs from your pay.*
I took a deep breath, adjusted my apron, and approached the lion's den.
"Welcome to the *Benevolent Mistress*, where the drinks are cold and the architecture is invasive!" I announced, slamming the water pitcher down with a flourish. "I'm Venti, your server, bard, and designated scapegoat for the evening."
Loki leaned over the table, opening one red eye. She looked me up and down, her grin widening to disturbing proportions.
"Well, ain't you a fresh face," she drawled, poking my side. "And flat as a board, too. Just how I like 'em."
"I'm a boy," I said cheerfully.
"Even better!" Loki slammed the table. "I'll take a barrel of Soma. And you on a platter."
"Disgusting," the werewolf muttered. He was leaning back, feet on the chair, looking at me with pure disdain. "We're being served by a cross-dressing twig? Hey, runt. Get me something that burns. And be quick about it, or I'll snap you in half."
Bete Loga. The quintessential 'bad boy' who desperately needed a hug or a muzzle.
"One Liquid Fire, coming right up," I said, giving a mock salute. "Would you like a side of manners with that? No? We're out of stock anyway."
Bete growled. I spun on my heel and retreated to the kitchen before he could decide if murder was on the menu.
The kitchen was a warzone. Anya was crying over spilled soup. Chloe was eating the ingredients. Mia was yelling.
"I can't do this alone," I muttered, staring at the mounting order tickets. "Loki Familia drinks like a drain, and I only have two hands."
I ducked behind a stack of flour sacks and reached into the pocket. *I need help. I need a coworker who understands me. I need... me.*
"Come on, 22nd century, give me the goods."
My hand closed around a red, bulbous nose attached to a small wire frame.
**The Copy Robot.**
You press the nose, and it turns into an exact duplicate of you. It shares your memories and personality. It's the perfect employee.
"Hehe," I giggled darkly. "Efficiency, thy name is Venti."
I pressed the red nose against my own nose.
*POOF.*
Smoke cleared. Standing in front of me was... me. Same braids, same green waitress dress, same white stockings.
"Okay, clone," I whispered urgently. "We're slammed. You take the drinks to Table Three and Five. I'll handle the Loki Familia. We split the tips 50/50."
The clone looked at me. It blinked slowly. It looked incredibly... relaxed. It yawned, stretching its arms high enough to crack its back.
"Work?" the clone said, its voice heavy with disinterest. "Sounds tedious. Wouldn't you rather... I don't know... lay under the tree and compose a haiku about wine?"
"No!" I hissed. "We are in debt! We need money! Go serve!"
I shoved a tray of ale into the clone's hands. It sighed, the sound of a martyr marching to the gallows, and shuffled out of the kitchen.
"This might be a mistake," I thought. "But how bad can I be?"
I grabbed the tray for the Loki Familia and followed.
For five minutes, it was paradise. We were a well-oiled machine. I delivered the food; the clone delivered the drinks. We were doubling the turnover. I was a genius.
Then, I heard the crash.
I froze, slowly turning toward the Loki table.
My clone was standing there. But it wasn't serving. It was holding Loki's personal tankard of high-grade wine.
"You know," the clone slurred—it was *drunk*? How was it drunk?! It had been five minutes!—"You guys are stiff. You need to... *hic*... let the wind guide you."
The clone took a massive swig of Loki's expensive wine.
The entire table went silent.
"Did that waitress just drink my booze?" Loki asked, her voice dangerously low.
"He sure did," Tiona whispered, looking impressed.
"Hey!" Bete slammed his fist on the table. "You little parasite! That's a ten thousand Valis vintage!"
The clone burped, wiping its mouth with the back of its hand. It looked at Bete with bleary, arrogant eyes.
"Is that a dog?" the clone asked, pointing a wobbly finger at the werewolf. "Who let the dog in? Shhh. Good boy. Sit."
Bete's vein popped. "I'm going to kill it."
"Wait!" I screamed, sprinting across the room.
"Whoa," Tione blinked, looking from me to the clone. "There's two of them?"
"Mitosis!" I yelled, skidding to a halt between Bete and my suicidal doppelganger. "It's a rare condition! Very contagious! Don't touch him!"
I turned to the clone, grabbing its shoulders. "What are you doing?!" I hissed. "You're supposed to be working!"
The clone shoved me off. "I am working. I'm testing the quality. The quality is... acceptable. But the ambience is lacking."
The clone reached into *its own* pocket.
Wait.
If the clone is a copy of me... it has a copy of the pocket.
"Oh no," I whispered.
The clone pulled out a microphone. A pink, plastic microphone with a flower on it.
**The Gian Singer.**
"NO!" I lunged.
Too late. The clone switched it on.
"LISTEN TO MY SONG!" the clone bellowed.
The gadget was designed to amplify sound. But in the hands of a defective clone of a tone-deaf bard (or at least, a bard who was currently too drunk to hit a note), it became a weapon of mass destruction.
*SCREEEEEEEEEEEEECH!*
A shockwave of discordant noise blasted through the pub. It wasn't music; it was the sound of tectonic plates grinding against chalkboard. Windows shattered. The lantern flames turned blue.
"MY EARS!" Bete howled, clamping his hands over his head, his werewolf hearing making it ten times worse.
"Make it stop!" Tiona yelled, kicking the table over.
Loki was laughing. She was clutching her stomach, tears streaming down her face, absolutely delighting in the agony of her subordinates. "THIS IS THE BEST DINNER SHOW EVER!"
I tackled the clone. We rolled on the floor, a tangle of green skirts and limbs.
"Give me the mic!"
"Never! The wind cannot be silenced!"
The clone was surprisingly strong. It kicked me in the shin and tried to scramble up the giant oak tree.
"Ryuu!" I screamed. "Assistance!"
Ryuu didn't ask questions. She vaulted over the bar, a blur of green motion. She leaped into the air, grabbed the clone by the ankle just as it reached the lower branches, and executed a perfect German Suplex.
The clone hit the floor. The red nose bumped against the wood.
*POOF.*
The clone vanished, leaving only the pink microphone spinning on the floorboards.
Silence returned to the *Benevolent Mistress*, save for the soft ringing in everyone's ears.
I stood up, panting, adjusting my disheveled braids. I picked up the microphone and shoved it deep into my pocket.
Every eye was on me. Bete looked ready to murder. Ryuu looked ready to murder. Mia looked like she was calculating the bill.
Loki, however, wiped a tear from her eye and stood up. She walked over to me, towering over my short frame.
"Kid," she said, grinning like a shark.
"I can explain," I squeaked. "It was... a magic trick?"
Loki slapped me on the back, hard enough to rattle my teeth.
"That," she declared, "was hilarious. You got guts, kid. Stealing my drink, insulting the wolf, and nearly deafening us? I haven't had this much fun since we raided the deep floors."
She tossed a heavy bag of coins onto the nearest non-broken table.
"Keep the change. And buy yourself a singing lesson."
She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"You're interesting, Bard. Keep it up, and I might just have to steal you from Mia."
Loki turned and marched her battered familia out the door. Bete stopped to glare at me one last time, mouthing the words *'You're dead'*, before following.
I stared at the door. I stared at the bag of money.
Ryuu walked up beside me, dusting off her hands.
"You," she said, "are a chaotic vortex."
"But look!" I held up the coin bag. "I made a profit!"
Mia loomed over us. She snatched the bag from my hand.
"That covers the windows," she grunted. "Get back to work. And if I see two of you again, I'm charging double."
I sighed, picking up my tray.
"Aye, aye, captain."
As I walked back to the kitchen, I patted the pocket.
*Note to self: Never trust a clone to do a bard's job.*